


Veritas, Veritas

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural, The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:09:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The F.B.I. guy roams across the country, searching for the truth, but Dean Winchester is the only one who knows the truth about <em>him</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Veritas, Veritas

  
The first time they ever encounter the F.B.I. guy is in 1994. Dean is fifteen, and Sammy is only eleven. They're in Rockford, Illinois, and John Winchester is hunting a ghost in a school. Staff members keep turning up dead (the local police say they're only suicides), though luckily none of the kids have been touched. Their father readily puts himself on any case involving children. Dean doesn't understand it, but Sam seems to get the bigger picture. It's the first time he's known more about how people work than Dean does.

The F.B.I. guy is sitting in a little blue Honda, right in the middle of the school's parking lot. He has a bag of sunflower seeds in his right hand. His hair is messy, and his radio is playing Pearl Jam's 'Dissident.' Dean's only ever heard one song by them before, but he likes it, so he rolls the window of the Impala further down. Sam is inside the school with their father. They are posing as a concerned parent and his son. Dean would rather wait in the car and watch F.B.I. guy.

Dean knows he's from the F.B.I. because he's wearing a black suit, and Dean can see his gun holster. When he turns his head, Dean looks quickly away.

A few more minutes pass by. A car door opens. Shuts. A moment later, there's a tap on the passenger side door. Dean looks up: F.B.I. guy has a big nose, but a good smile. He doesn't look like the type to listen to rock and roll.

"You go to school here?"

Dean shrugs. He doesn't look the guy directly in the eye. "No. I go to school across town." Which will be true for at least another week, allowing a couple days to solve the killings and then another day to get everything packed up.

F.B.I. guy doesn't lean on the car like it's a piece of furniture. Dean respects that.

"Good," he says. "Things are pretty ugly in there."

"I guess."

Dean can see Sammy and their dad in the school's lobby. They'll be coming out in a few minutes.

"Hey, kid. Do you believe in ghosts?"

Dean's head snaps around. He stares at the fed. His smile is still nice. His hair is still messy.

"I might," he hedges.

"That's good, too. You know, in Taoism, there's this thing called a 'hungry ghost.' People who die hungry, or thirsty, or without a roof over their heads turn into these…malevolent spirits who come back and eat the emotions of the living. People who've got a hungry ghost feeding off them get sad…and then depressed, and then suicidal."

The guy glances up at the school building. It's all rounded – Dean has been looking, and he is hard-pressed to find a corner. And everything is white, from the paint to the bricks to the sidewalks outside.

"They say that if you design a building in a certain way, it'll attract ghosts," the guy murmurs, and then pats the side of the Impala. "Anyways. Keep toughing it out, kid. Life gets better after high school."

And then Sam and dad come out of the school, and the guy gets back in his car, and they all go their separate ways.

"Dad," he asks later. "Is there such a thing as a _hungry_ ghost?"

As it turns out, there is. And it's what they're hunting.

That's the first time they meet the F.B.I. guy.

***

He becomes sort of a local legend amongst hunters: the fed in the suit with the sunflower seeds. Most of the time he has a redhead with him, and they solve mysteries like the world is fucking Scooby Doo and only they know how to unmask the villain at the end. But then there's a whole year where he _doesn't_ have the redhead with him, and he looks lonelier for it. Sadder.

Crop circles make him excited. A couple hunters have tried to summon the guy before, like you would a crossroads demon, by rolling some logs around in a couple of cornfields. The fed never showed up. Not once. It was like he could smell what was real and what wasn't.

They run into him, periodically. First it's the three of them, Dean and Sam and their father, and then, for a little bit, it's just Dean and Dad. Sam doesn't trust him, while Sam is still around. But Sam doesn't listen to Pearl Jam, and he says the fed is probably eating sunflower seeds because he's just quit smoking, so Sam can kiss Dean's ass. Pearl Jam is awesome.

***

They talk again in 1999. They're on a farm in Stanley, Idaho. There's nothing but woods for miles around, and Sam is back at the hotel, studying. He's shot up like six inches in the past few months and he's still getting used to his new height. It makes him a liability on hunts, so he stays behind.

When Dad and the fed see each other, they do this sort of half-nod thing. Then Dad props open the trunk and starts rooting around for the silver bullets.

"There aren't any ghosts out here," Dean calls out to the guy. He just wants him to know that he remembers. Dad glances up, but doesn't acknowledge the guy's existence any more than he already has.

"I'm not looking for ghosts this time."

"Yeah? Well, we're hunting a skinwalker. What's your story?"

The fed slants a glance Dean's way. He's aged well – he must be pushing forty by now, if not already past it, and all he's got are a couple of crows' feet. When he smiles, it's handsome and unashamed. Hunters are furtive creatures by nature. This guy has a smile that could power a forty-watt bulb.

"This area has the highest percentage of reported abductions in the entire state."

"What, like kidnappings?"

"That's what I want to find out."

"Come on, Dean," Dad says. The trunk slams shut, and he tosses Dean a shotgun. Dean gets defensive duty whenever his father figures out the monster of the week. The opposite is true, too. They pass the fed on their way into the woods, and Dean glances back at him. He's looking up at the sky, like it'll tell him something.

"It's probably just the skinwalker," he calls back, trying to sound reassuring. "We'll take care of it!"

But a couple weeks later, Dean checks with Sam, who checks the Stanley newspaper online, and, sure enough, literally the day _after_ Dean and John had killed the skinwalker there had been another abduction.

"Someone living out in the woods," is Dad's guess. "Some sicko. A monster, maybe, but not the sort that _we_ hunt. And it definitely isn't aliens. You'd do well to stay away from that man. He's that type, you know. So open minded his brain's just about fallen out."

"Yeah, Dean," Sammy says. "Stay away from that guy. He's spooky."

Whatever. He's got something he believes in. Dean can get behind that.

***

Sam leaves for college, and Dean sees the fed, but it's only on occasion. It's the year when he's totally alone, when he rides in his rental car of the week with his bag of sunflower seeds in the passenger seat, rather than a pretty red-haired woman. He goes out of his way to avoid talking to people. If Dean didn't know better, he'd swear the guy was a ghost himself.

They talk once during that year; they're in Iuka, Mississippi. It's 2001. Dean is trying out hunting on his own – it involves doing a lot of research (by himself) and a lot of preparation (by himself), but there's a sense of satisfaction when he finally manages to hunt down and kill whatever it is he's put so much work into. His father praises him, but he misses Sammy. Sometimes, if they happen to be close, he borrows the Impala and drives all the way down to Stanford, as fast as he can, while his dad's asleep. He has to make sure he has the car back by morning, or else there'll be hell to pay. John Winchester seems to care more for his car at this point than his own children.

This is one of the nights when Dean _doesn't_ take the car. Instead, he walks the few blocks to the nearest bar (there are something like seven in the town, all within walking distance of the motel). When he walks inside, no one turns to look at him. All the blood he can feel clinging to his skin and coagulating on his jacket isn't actually there – it's all in his head.

He sits at the bar and orders a beer. It takes him a few minutes to recognize the man sitting next to him.

He's aged. It's only been a few years since Dean last saw the fed, but he looks like he's aged a lifetime. The hair at his temples has gone silver, and he has a scar on his ear, a nick, like someone tried to carve a piece of him off for a trophy. He has a glass of what looks like scotch in front of him, but it doesn't appear to have been touched for a while. It's still full.

"Hey," Dean says. He doesn't think. He just…does. "You're that guy."

The fed sort of nudges his glass, making the bright amber liquid inside slosh around like an upset stomach. Dean feels nauseous just looking at it. When the bartender sets a bottle in front of him, he focuses on that instead. It's safer.

"It's been a while," he offers. The fed shrugs.

"Two years. Not that long."

"It is when you do what we do."

The fed turns his head, cracks a smile. Dean can see it out of the corner of his eye. It makes him smile, too. It's infectious.

"Hunted anything interesting lately?"

The fed shrugs again. "You should know by now what I do. I'm not a hunter."

"You might as well be."

"Just because a guy's Jewish doesn't mean he's a Rabbi, too. I'm not like you, kid."

Dean pops the cap off his beer with his thumbnail, takes a long pull. When he sets the bottle down again, the fed is watching him. "You've seen things, same as I have. Doesn't matter what you want to be true. You chase after all the things that go bump in the night, make sure they don't hurt anyone. Face it, F.B.I. You're a hunter, whether you like it or not."

The fed runs his finger along the rim of his glass. His hair is getting longer, even as it's going grey – it flops over his eyes and makes him look like a big puppy. Dean is reminded, almost painfully so, of Sam.

"Things have changed a lot," the fed murmurs. "I'm getting old. I'd be better off leaving the search to you kids."

"Seriously? What are you, fifty? That's not that old."

The fed lifts his finger, but it's only mild offense that colors his expression. "_Hey_. I'm forty-five, you little punk. _Fifty_. Jesus Christ."

Dean raises a hand. "Sorry. My mistake. That's exactly what I mean, though. You're a good hunter. You've got plenty of time left. Shit, man, it's not like this is the sort of job you can just _quit_."

The fed freezes. It's like someone reached into his brain and flipped an 'off' switch hidden in there. He's so still that, for a second, Dean panics and starts to look around for whatever monster is hiding in the bar. What sort of creatures could stop time? Or freeze someone? Was there a basilisk hiding under the karaoke stage or something?

Then the world sort of…stutter-starts, and everything is normal again. The fed picks up his scotch for the first time and takes a sip, then takes a folded bill from his pocket, sets it on the bar, places the glass on top of it.

_He's getting up to leave_, Dean realizes. _He's leaving and I'm never going to see him again._ He doesn't know why he thinks that, but he can feel it reverberating in his gut.

"What's your name, kid?"

Dean swallows. "Dean Winchester."

"Dean, huh? I want you to remember something, Dean. It's important, so don't laugh it off or think it's bullshit, alright?"

"Yeah….sure. What is it?"

The fed reaches into his pocket – Dean can hear the crinkle of plastic. When the fed pulls his hand out again, his palm is full of sunflower seeds.

"The truth is out there. Remember that."

He squints, but before Dean can ask what the hell _that's_ supposed to mean, the fed is popping a few seeds into his mouth, and then he just…leaves. Sort of strolls out with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders a little slumped. He looks ragged. Tired. He's still the coolest fucking thing Dean has ever seen.

He doesn't see him again for eight years.

***

The F.B.I. guy roams across the country. At first he hunted monsters on the government's dime, but now he's furtive and quick. He's smaller even as he becomes larger than life. Hunters in Chicago tell stories about how he rolled into town one day in January and set fire to an entire nest of rabid earth elementals, escaping the burning wreckage without so much as a scratch and then going to get a burger at a diner just down the street, still covered in soot and reeking of smoke.

The stories say that his name reflects his spirit animal, shown to him by a Chickasaw shaman. It's either Wolf, or Bear, or Tiger – no one knows for sure.

The stories also say his gun was made by Samuel Colt, that it's supposed to be the prototype for the legendary gun itself. He eats a five-pound steak for breakfast every morning – no, he eats nothing but the livers and hearts of animals he's killed himself, in order to absorb their strength. He's the smartest man alive. He's practically Good Will Hunting.

He eats thirty-four bags of sunflower seeds a day, one for each year that Jesus Christ was alive (this is the only thing that Dean imagines might be based on truth). When he sneezes, hurricanes blow down the coast of South America. He once killed a man in a Mexican bar just because he could.

Eight years of this. Dean feels special, for knowing the truth: that the F.B.I. guy is just this dude who's getting older and who's trying to do the right thing. He can't kill a vampire with only the power of his mind, but Dean knows that he's got floppy hair and a big nose and the sort of smile that lights up a room.

He holds the fed's last words in his mind. The truth is out there. Dean doesn't know what the truth _is_, but he supposes it never hurts to look for it.

***

Dean and Sam are in Wapanucka, Oklahoma. Some witch has been selling enchanted farm equipment that freaks out and kills whoever uses it, and if Dean never sees another tractor as long as he lives he'll be glad of it. They're posing as Federal agents. Sam keeps picking at his sleeves. The dry cleaner must have used some chemical his skin isn't used to. Dean clamps down on the urge to laugh as they step into the county sheriff's office.

"Bit late, fellas," the sheriff says. He doesn't even look up from his desk. Sam blinks.

"Excuse me?"

"Your supervisor's already here. Boy, I'll tell you, I have heard some rumors about redheads, but I never put any stock in them until I met her! She's waiting in the cooler for you."

Sam looks at Dean, like he'll have answers. Dean just shrugs. What does he look like, a crystal ball? Fuck that. He heads for the 'cooler' (how quaint) before Sam can start asking questions.

The morgue looks like every other morgue in the country – maybe a bit smaller, but the shelves are crowded with bone shears and forceps, scissors for cutting clothes, scissors for cutting tissue, boxes of latex gloves, and absolutely _everything_ smells like disinfectant. All in all, it's one of the cleaner morgues Dean's been in.

Standing over the autopsy table is a petit, redheaded woman. She's wearing sensible shoes and her hair is in a neat bob; her face is just beginning to show the wear and tear of age, but she's still pretty smokin'. If Dean were into cougars, he'd go for it.

Lying on the slab is F.B.I. guy.

"Fuck," Dean says, and the woman turns towards him. Her eyes are so intensely blue that for a second Dean has to pause in order to comprehend them. She's wearing a suit, too. Dean can see the outline of a gun holster against her hip.

"Mulder talked about you," she says. Her thumb rests against the fed's temple, against the thickening patch of grey there. "I'm Dana Scully. We were partners."

Dean clears his throat. "So you, uh, know about all the…" He twirls his finger in a circle, the universal symbol for 'crazy, impossible shit.' Scully's mouth turns up in a small smile.

"He dragged me everywhere, when we still worked together. Looking for the truth. Yes, I know. And I know what killed him, too. Which is why you're here. I…might have sent your friend out there an email. I was hoping you would help me. I'm not as fast as I used to be."

Dean can't drag his gaze away from the fed - _Mulder's_ face. He looks sad. Like he doesn't want to see the chase end, even after all the pain it's caused him. Dean reaches out, doesn't even think about it, and rests his fingertips next to Scully's. Mulder's skin is tepid, but not cold. Like there's still some fire smoldering inside him, just under his ribcage.

"Yeah," he croaks. Scully's thumb touches his.

"I always heard about you," she murmurs. "Dean. He said you were a good kid. I half thought he was making you up…a whole family driving around the country, hunting monsters. I'm glad he wasn't. You made him…happier, even when I couldn't. It was knowing that there were younger people who would keep believing, even after he was gone."

She lets out a breath. There's melancholy in her eyes, but it's more bittersweet than anything else. Dean imagines this is probably how Mulder would have wanted to go – he was a hunter, after all. Hunters don't get to die quietly in their sleep, surrounded by fat grandkids. The best they can hope for is one last great adventure, going out in a blaze of glory. Mulder will be remembered for decades after today. Dean can only begin to hope for such an honor.

"It was a werewolf," Scully says, and then laughs, short, sharp. "I can't believe I'm actually saying that out loud. Mulder would make _such_ a fuss…But it's the truth. It was a werewolf, and I know who it is. Think you can handle it?"

Dean presses the pad of his thumb against Mulder's jawline. He can hear Sammy out in the lobby, still talking to the sheriff.

"The truth," he sighs. And then, "Yeah. Yeah, we're ready. Just point us in the right direction and we'll go kill us a werewolf."

Scully smiles. Dean can see a little bit of her partner, all caught up in the shape of her mouth and the expressiveness of her eyes. As long as she's alive, some part of Mulder will live on.

"Sammy!" He sticks his head out the door. "We've got a lead, let's go!"

"What? What lead? Where are we going?"

Dean glances back at Scully, then to his brother. There's a little bit of Mulder in _them_, too, as long as they keep believing.

"We're gonna find the truth."  



End file.
